


Heliotrope Bouquet

by nicholas_de_vilance



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Jazz Age, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Music, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, Seheron, Violence, World War I, how do you tag things?, veteran
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-11 03:56:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5613133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicholas_de_vilance/pseuds/nicholas_de_vilance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Thank you for answering my advertisement, Mr. Hissrad,” said Lady Pavus, all business.  She sat delicately on an over-stuffed armchair by the hearth.  “I feel I should warn you now, before we go any further, that we are not seeking to employ a simple music instructor.  Your time at Montebraille University caught my eye…as did your service in Seheron.”</p><p>“Quite a colorful mix of skills, I’m aware,” Bull commented.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Instead of finishing "Do You Want?" I've been working on this. It's kind of my baby, and it's not really finished yet. But I really wanted to get it out there. I suppose I just wanted to see if anyone thinks it's worth finishing. I certainly do. I was listening to Chauvin about a month and a half ago and couldn't get the image of Dorian in a waistcoat and spats out of my head.
> 
> So this doesn't really have an accurate historical setting. I only know the look I'm going for is like WW1 or post-war England. Also, I'm afraid to put too much in the tags before I actually write the sensitive bits, but this will not be a particularly nice story. As a warning, some truly awful shit will happen to both our lovely boys, but I think it all works out in the end.
> 
> I've got to go to work now. Tell me what you think!
> 
> PS: Rating high for later chapters. Don't want anyone wandering in unawares.

The foyer was vast and full to the brim with gaudy décor.  From the moment Iron Bull stepped between the ironbark double doors, he knew he’d hate this place.  Teal and black damask wallpaper stretched up from the dark wood paneled wainscoting.  The entry-way expanded out five feet on either side of the door and up through the second floor like an atrium.  Massive Orlesian-styled, arched windows loomed above the doors.  They were perfect for letting in that famed Tevinter sun, probably bathed the colossal room and some of the upstairs corridors in light during the day.  In the autumn, late-evening rains, however, the electric lights on the walls struggled to purge the room of shadows.  It gave every corner and bust and deco painting a frightening gloom.

“Well look at you,” said the old woman who ushered him out of the rain.  “You look a fright.  Let me take that coat.  You’re the new music teacher, I presume.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bull replied, appreciative of her warm tone in the cold night.

“ ‘Ma’am,’ he says!”  The woman laughed, her fading Dalish accent still managed to fill the sound.  As she smiled, her eyes crinkled at the corners, speaking without words of a lifetime of kind smiles.  Her graying hair matched her gray eyes.  “Estha to you, my good sir.  You can leave your bag right there, I’ll see to it Velena puts it in the attic.”

“I can take it,” Bull offered.

Estha pulled the heavy valise from his hand and set it down by the door.  Her age obviously hid her strength well, but every spry movement she made was elegant and practiced.  “The mistress in in the parlor just past the stairs and on your right.  I’d take you there myself, but I hope you’ll forgive a lapse in hospitality.  I have to make sure dinner gets on.  You are a bit later than expected.”

“Apologies—”

“Never you mind, dear.  The mistress is waiting for you.”

The woman bustled out of the room with Bull’s long coat in tow.  The sheer size of the garment made her seem even smaller than your typical elf housemaid.  Bull felt rather like he’d been struck by a stranger force of nature than the maelstrom outside.  Estha was a blatant contrast to the cold marble of the foyer, and the intimidating expanse of very expensive rugs that covered the floor.  Bull feared dripping or getting a muddy footprint on them.

As he passed, Bull looked up the massive, curving marble staircase.  He was Qunari; he was a very large member of his race, yet this house, the little he’d seen of it, dwarfed him.  How could humans live here comfortably?

The drawing room door sat slightly ajar.  Inside, Bull could hear voices.  One was shrill, feminine.  She did most of the talking.

“Just because your father is away does not give you leave to act like a child,” the woman snapped.  Her tone was even, might had been dulcet and sultry at one point in her life.  “I will not tolerate it and I will not defend your actions.”

“Which ‘actions’ am I being scolded for this time, Mother?  Just so I’m clear.”

“Brigid.”

“Ah…”  The young man paused.  His voice, a well-loved knife coated in poisoned honey, lost just a bit of conviction.  “Yes, she was a lovely woman—”

“Then why—by Andraste’s fiery grace—did you push her into that fountain?”

“Oh Maker, for the third and final time, I did not push her!  She had had too much wine.  I even helped her up and what do I get?”

Bull swung the door open silently on its hinges.  He didn’t mean to eavesdrop.  However, the door was well oiled.  It made no sound to alert the room’s occupants to his presence.  The woman stood beside the fire.  She was exceedingly well-dressed for the late hour.  A formal, silk robe fell gracefully over her thing shoulders.  It was trimmed and inlaid in gold and red embroidery.  On the settee sat a beautiful young man.  He had his mother’s sharp eyes and a meticulously crafted moustache with just the barest hint of a bear on his chin.  He lounged, half on his back, feet planted so his long legs bent at the knees.  In a similar fashion to his mother, he wore a white dress shirt and jacket, but the cuffs and tie were loose, collar unbuttoned.  The gold inlay traced down the leg of his slacks, flowering out at the knee in tasteful, vibrant swirls.

“She would have had no reason to strike you if you had not—”  The mistress of the house went on, completely unaware of her new audience.

“She was sauced up to her tits,” replied the young man.  “Which weren’t altogether that impressive, if I’m honest.”

_“Dorian Lorenzo Pavus!”_

At this moment, Iron Bull chose to clear his throat and make his presence known.  Lady Pavus and her son both turned their head at the same time.  The next few moments happened in a blur as though time slowed down.  The younger Pavus reared back and raised his hand, a look of absolute terror on his face.  Iron Bull knew that motion from the mages he’d fought in Seheron during the war.  It meant fire.  His hand went for his pistol before he remembered that he didn’t carry it anymore.  Flames burst out, lethal accuracy aimed for Bull’s chest.  The fireball splashed outward, around him, hitting him with a wall of intense heat.  Bull felt the tips of his horns singe and go numb.  However, as the fire died away, he discovered why he wasn’t a smoldering pile of ash on the floor—or at least a grievously seared dying body.  Around him, he could see as well as feel the wispy, blue remnants of a barrier spell.

“Dorian, you foolish boy, put out that fire this instant!”  Lady Pavus sounded more like a weary, over-burdened mother than Bull was comfortable with.  It was as though Young Master Pavus had tracked mud onto the rugs rather than attempted to set fire to a houseguest.  “This is your new music tutor, if I am not mistaken.”

Bull managed to nod when prompted, and without shaking.  It was no small feat.  He was positively terrified.  He hadn’t felt a rush of adrenaline this strong since the war and he could not tear his gaze away from the young mage who had almost killed him.  Staring at the human boy felt like looking in a mirror.  Bull’s utter horror was reflected in Dorian’s dark, caramel eyes.

Master Pavus recovered quickly, however.  “Well, how in the Void was I supposed to know what?” he snapped.  “Some brutish ox-man appears unannounced at the drawing room door—”

“Be silent, boy,” said the lady of the house.  At last, her command seemed to sink in.  Dorian’s mouth snapped shut.  “My deepest apologies for my son’s behavior, Mister…”

Bull coughed a little to clear the sick feeling in his throat and stamp down the hammering in his chest.  At first, he couldn’t bring himself to respond.  He’d just had a fireball thrown at him, he deserved a small lapse in manners.  That young man had just lobbed one of the most intense fire spells Iron Bull had ever witness—let alone been the target of— _with his bare hands_.  And Lady Pavus had tossed up a barrier in the nick of time.  Easy as breathing—not a staff between them.  _Oh boy,_ he thought glumly, _What have you got yourself into, Bull?_

“Hissrad,” he croaked out.  “Iron Bull Hissrad, my lady.”

Dorian scoffed, but with one withering glare from his mother, he swallowed whatever sharp, snarky comment he might have had about Bull’s name.

“Mr. Hissrad,” Lady Pavus intoned.  “I apologize on behalf of my son.  He has a crippling inability to _think_ before he acts.  Please accept my assurance that no harm or further discomfort shall befall you within these walls.  Dorian will wait for you in the music room while we discuss the terms of your employment.”

“Will I?” said the young man, a challenge in his voice.

Lady Pavus glared at her son and literal sparks of electricity snapped from her fingertips.  “Now, _boy_.  You are not too old to be dragged out of this room by the ear.”

Surprisingly enough, Dorian’s hand shot up to his ear defensively.  His eyes were comically wide and his cheeks adopted a darker and pinkish hue.  He threw himself to his feet and stomped from the room with a flourish that spoke volumes of a man who thrived at the center of attention.  He shoved right past Iron Bull to get to the door, but he didn’t actually make contact.  He slipped right around Bull’s considerable stature with agility one might employ after years of avoiding physical contact.  The door slammed behind him with a sharp crack.

“Please excuse my son, Mr. Hissrad,” said Lady Pavus.  Gone was the ruthless tone of a fierce matriarch.  As she deflated, her voice turned to something warmer, more pleasant.  “He has had…a difficult transition from Circle.  If this display has made you reconsider accepting employment, I will completely understand.  You will be compensated for your travel as well as any hardship.”

Taking a second to consider the series of events that just transpire, Bull ended up simply smiling.  “He’s a bit old for temper tantrums, isn’t he?” he joked, hoping his attempt to lighten the mood wouldn’t breach courtesy.

Lady Pavus smiled right back.  It was small and remarkably demure for someone in her late fifties, but anything more might have been seen as crass, according to the convoluted customs of Tevinter nobility.  “Please have a seat, Mr. Hissrad.  We shall get the business squared away.”

“Thank you,” Bull replied kindly.

The drawing room—though the sheer size of it suggested it was more a small, converted ballroom than anything else—had the same sort of overabundance of décor as the foyer.  Every surface and ever wall was covered in paintings and busts of past members of House Pavus, going back centuries.  The floors in this room were hardwood, yet covered almost completely by lavish, Antivan area rugs.  Even the fireplace was mammoth and gaudy, made of fine Tevinter marble and veined through with spikes of bloodstone and dark nevarrite.  As far as actual furniture went, there were more tables—coffee tables, end tables, desks—than there were places to sit.  They must have done a lot of entertaining, but never made their guests comfortable to outwear a welcome.  Practical.

Bull sat on the settee Dorian had just vacated.  It was not made with a Qunari in mind.  The seat perched low enough that Bull’s knees bent high.  He did not complain.  At least it was soft and comfortable, if one ignored the residual heat of Dorian’s earlier fire spell.

“Thank you for answering my advertisement, Mr. Hissrad,” said Lady Pavus, all business.  She sat delicately on an over-stuffed armchair by the hearth.  “I feel I should warn you now, before we go any further, that we are not seeking to employ a simple music instructor.  Your time a Montebraille University caught my eye…as did your service in Seheron.”

“Quite a colorful mix of skills, I’m aware,” Bull commented.

“The fact is, Dorian is not adjusting well,” she went on.  “He returned from Circle with a bountiful education and many scars.  As you witnessed, he is a very powerful mage, but recent events have somewhat undermined his discipline.  I understand that along with music, you studied human culture and behavior.”

“That’s right.  It seemed necessary in order to teach in an area widely populated with humans.”

“Indeed.  Now, my son is also a gifted musician.  Any piece of music he hears, he can play—and he has composed several pieces.  However, he knows nothing of notes and musical theory.”  She said this with the same emotion and pity one usually reserved for commenting on starving orphans or the working class.  “I implore you to teach him this…”

Bull picked up on her unfinished thought.  The nervous way she went from topic to topic, mentioning, but not extrapolating on anything of import.  She commented on his time in the army, but did not linger, or explain why such experience might be necessary for a music teacher.  “There is more?” he inquired gently.  “Something else you’re worried about?”

“Yes, there is.”  It was several, long moments before Lady Pavus moved to explain.  She seemed to be calculating, pouring over her best options.  What information would she need to reveal?  What might stay hidden?  “There was an incident.  A few years ago, while Dorian was in school.  I feel it is not my place to discuss it, however…  Have you heard of the Circle on the Eyes of Nocen?”

Bull shook his head.  It sounded vaguely familiar, but he was far from versed in Tevinter geography.

“I advise you to look it up,” she said softly, “it was small, purely run by the Chantry.  Dorian was studying there when a group of mad Tal Vashoth pirates mistook the coast for Seheron.”

Bull felt the hairs of the back of his neck stand on end.

 

_Burning, stench of smoke and blood and charred flesh._

_The Tal Vashoth will not relent, thriving on the chaos of battle, thrusting forward wounded and dying for one more blow, one more shot._

_Hissrad hates them, hates that they won’t stop, that they won’t just die._

_The stink, acrid and nauseating, fills his nose, his pores.  He will never wash himself clean._

 

“Oh,” was all he could think to say, sighing heavily through his nose to banish the imagined smoke.

“Yes, well,” Lady Pavus reclined slightly, wearied by the magnitude of the topic.  “Dorian hasn’t been the same since, as I’m sure you can understand.”

“Of course.”  Bull tried not to think very hard on the idea of soldiers mutilating a school because they thought they were in a war zone.  He’d seen too much of death in his day, too much of children’s corpses littering the ground.  He didn’t wish the trials of battle on anyone’s shoulders.  Even the pampered, vint noble who would’ve burned him down as soon as look at him.  It was marginally easier to excuse Dorian’s actions, knowing a small part of the man’s experience.  “However, I still don’t really understand.  What does this have to do with me?”

“Frankly, Mr. Hissrad, I don’t want to go in one day and find my son hanging from the ceiling lamp in his bedroom.”  Lady Pavus became increasingly weary, running long fingers slowly over her beautiful, aged face.  “There is nothing I can do to help him.  He’s made that quite clear.  Propriety prevents my being at his side every moment of every day and night.”

“So you want someone to keep an eye on him?”

“I want someone to watch over him, to understand him, to give him what he needs despite what he wants.  Too many of your predecessors resorted to catering to his every whim and it made things _worse_.”  She sat up once more, leveling an intense gaze on her guest.  “Above all, I want someone to protect him.”

Bull met her intensity and matched it.  He looked her right in her pale, caramel gaze.  This was not a challenge.  He held her attention and set himself into an air of confidence and seriousness.  Between them, he nurtured a sense of similarity, of like goals.  “This, I can do,” he assured her.

Lady Pavus considered him, picking up on the energy between them.  The corners of her mouth lifted in a small, tired smile.  “I believe you can, Mr. Hissrad,” she said, “I also believe you are our last hope.”


	2. Prologue - Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, forgive any mistakes, typos, grammatical errors. I have no beta. But here's chapter 2, which is actually just another part of the prologue. This story will be told in a series of sections like this, prologue, summer, fall, that sort of thing. Hope that works for everyone.
> 
> Also! If you comment, would you mind terribly letting me know how old you think Dorian is? I'm having a bit of a dilemma. I know he's relatively young, but he's definitely an adult, by human standards. I just...don't know. Give me an opinion, it might help me come to a decision. Thanks all.
> 
> Much love!

This house of the Pavus family was vast and spacious and ridiculous.  It had a fairly nonsensical floor-plan, consisting of more hallways and corridors than actual rooms.  Bull wandered, trying to follow Lady Pavus’ directions carefully, but he remained suspicious that he was lost.  He passed door after door, wondering idly what more one could possibly need in a house aside from a kitchen and bedrooms.  However, the more he thought about it, the more the practicality rose to slap him in the face.  The house was a maze, yes.  Qarinus lay on the coastal border, nearer Seheron and the war than most Tevinter cities.  Should the fighting spill over across the straits, this house was built very well for invasion.  Anyone who didn’t belong within the walls would be lost quite instantly, and it was massive enough that even burning to the ground would take long enough for the family and servants to flee.  This was the sort of home built at the height of the war, perhaps even before the Qun-Tevinter alliance.

As he roamed the halls in search of the music room, Bull began to admire the architecture.  He felt safer knowing the place was built with such things in mind.  You could take the soldier from the battlefield, but you couldn’t remove the decade and a half of physical and mental scarring from the soldier.

“Are we to have a lesson, or are you inclined to become one of those statues you’re ogling?”

Startled, Bull turned around and peered down the hall.  Dorian Pavus stood with his hand on an open door.  His hip jutted out as a perch for the other hand, and he wore a look of plain indifference.  Bull noted the flamboyant stance and cracked a smile.  He proceeded down the hall at an easy pace, gaze locked on the young man until the young lord frowned, grew uncomfortable and turned to flee into the music room.  This…could be very fun.  The kid was guarded, that much was obvious.  Bull didn’t doubt that he would thoroughly enjoy picking him apart.

As he entered the room – which was, in theme with the rest of the house, completely disproportionate to the hall outside – he saw Young Pavus lounging on the bench of a gorgeous grand piano.  Bull fell in love instantly.  The casing was dark wood, stained slightly cherry with graceful swirls in the grain.  A mid-century, Orlesian relief dotted up the piano’s legs and sides, giving her a beautiful allure.  Even the lid, propped open for clearest sound, had intricate wreaths of leafy flowers and ribbon carved into the wood.

Another beauty, the music that flowed out, instigated by Dorian’s sure and steady hands.  He played something upbeat.  Bull didn’t recognize the composer, but he knew the song was contemporary.  No doubt the kid heard it on the radio.  Pavus did seem like the sort of rebellious, turn-of-the-century child who would dare listen to ragtime in his parent’s living room.

“That’s a fun tune,” Bull commented.

“It’s something I picked up,” Dorian replied flippantly.  He didn’t miss a beat.

If Lady Pavus hadn’t already informed Bull that her son had no grasp of sheet music or theory, the Iron Bull might have been shocked at this sight.  Dorian maintained an easy flow, constant recitation of what he’d heard, without visual aid.  And this piece was advanced.  Even with the sheet in front of him, Bull would have difficulty mastering it.

“Who’s it by?” he pressed, testing that the young man could in fact maintain focus in both conversation and performance.

Because this was obviously a performance.  The man took this opportunity to show off, no doubt in an attempt to discourage his new tutor.  _I’m already perfectly capable, I play better than you do, so kindly fuck off._   Iron Bull had seen it before.

Lord Pavus was, however, better than expected.  He looked up as Bull circled round him and flashed a clever grin.  His fingers flew gracefully over the keys with hardly an effort.  “Some starving, Ferelden composer, I think.  Juplin, or something like that.”

Setting his briefcase down beside the widest part of the instrument, Bull listened contently and leaned gently on the piano’s frame to take a glance at the strings.  They were perfectly in tune, odd for an antique.  He wondered if magic had anything to do with that.  Poor people wandered through woods and wilds from the Waking Sea to Ostagar searching for apostates to trade spells for their last coin, just for that bit of luck or happiness in these dark times.  Magic is a rare, valued and little-understood treasure.  Here in Tevinter, they tuned the piano with it. 

“You’re good,” Bull stated.  It was hardly a compliment.

This kid didn’t need to be complimented, if anything he needed to be knocked down a few pegs.  “I’m aware.  Perhaps I could teach you a thing or two.”

“Nah, let’s just stick to my workbooks, shall we, Young Master?”

Abruptly, Pavus stopped playing.  He shot Bull a withering look that rivaled his mother’s intense scowl.  A lesser man might cower from that glare.  “Please you,” he began, voice clipped, straining courtesy.  “Do not call me that.”

Which utterly confused Iron Bull.  The Pavuses reeked of wealth and importance.  Hell, the lord of this estate was apparently a big wig on the Imperial Senate, or some shit.  Tevinter nobles like this took so much pride in their station and titles it was a fault.  Bull thought it would be a good move to place young Dorian in a superior position.  Nobles did love to have their egos stroked.  Apparently, he miscalculated.  “Alright, my mistake.  What should I call you?”

For a short while, the kid seemed to consider that.  “My name is Dorian, might as well use it,” he conceded carelessly, “I suppose ‘Sir’ will suffice, if you must keep that stick up your arse.”

“Am I going to get into shit for calling you by your first name around your parents?”

At that, the altus cracked a small smile.  “You’ll just have to try it to find out, won’t you?” he teased.  His fingers started up on the keys again, gently this time.  The notes were softer, slower.  This was in contrast to the truly wicked grin in his eyes.

Bull considered the young man for several moments.  Aesthetically, Dorian was precisely the standard for a young Altus.  He was beautiful, clever, skilled—most likely the ruthless sort of socialite.  His form on the bench was less than perfect, slacking posture, bent wrists.  It seemed to work for him, thus Bull figured he would touch on those sorts of things later.  The classicists who taught Bull in University were anal retentive sticklers for bearing, posture and technicalities of fingering.  Bull reserved the philosophy that those things definitely helped someone begin to learn, and they were good habits.  However, Pavus flew through his music with passion and grace without the rigorous training.  If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

“You’re mother tells me you don’t know how to read.”

Brow furrowed, Pavus looked up again.  He expressed genuine confusion for a moment before realization dawned on him.  “Sheet, you mean?” he clarified.  His fingers danced swiftly into a delicate trill at the high end of the keys and progressed back down in triads while his left hand beat out a gentle, rhythmic chord.  “No, I don’t understand it.  In Circle, one has more important things to do than sit deciphering endless strings of dots and lines.  My studies always came first.”

“You don’t think it’s important to learn notes?”

“Personally, I don’t see the necessity.”  Momentarily, Dorian’s eyes fell closed, his song petering out into soft dynamics.  “I can hear the song just fine in my head.  My fingers know what to do to reproduce it.”

Iron Bull frowned as something important occurred to him.  “You composed this, didn’t you?”  Dorian didn’t just have a knack for playing by rote.  He was a prodigious genius.

“Yes, so what?”

So what, indeed.  Bull ground his teeth and let out a heavy breath through his nose.  He gravely disliked this sort of artist.  The blatant disregard for the actual craft, the petulant air of superiority.  This lack of effort to produce such beautiful tones made Dorian lazy, and selfish.  He didn’t understand.  “Let me put it this way,” said Mr. Hissrad, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “You used books to study at school, right?  Dry, dusty old tomes written by equally dry and dusty old men some hundred years or so ago.”

Pavus nodded.

“Imagine none of the old mages who made all those important discoveries about magic—imagine none of them ever wrote any of it down.  Then they died.”

Once more, Pavus stopped playing.  He gawked up at Bull, expression guarded but mildly offended.  He hadn’t quite made the intended connection, but he was getting there.  “That would be utterly tragic,” he insisted.

Iron Bull smiled.  “So…you have something that beautiful just floating around in your head.  And I don’t doubt you’ve composed other pieces.  You seem prolific.  What happens to all that beautiful music once you die?  Or when you get old and you can’t remember it anymore?  What would our world be like if all the great, classic composers just decided they didn’t need to write any of it down?”

“Don’t patronize me, Mr. Hissrad.”

“I’m not patronizing you, I’m calling you selfish.”

Taken aback, Pavus narrowed his eyes.  A scales resided in those caramel-gold irises, weighing and measuring every unfortunate thing they captured in their unrelenting gaze.  He was doing it to Bull right then, considering him carefully.  Either he would ultimately scoff and decide everything Bull said was inconsequential drivel, or he would find truth in Bull’s words.  Whichever he landed on, though, the kid was going to put up a fight.

“Forgive me,” said the mage, at length.  “I’m not used to being blatantly insulted by my employees.”

Bull just rolled his eyes and pulled the cover down on the piano.  “I’m not _your_ employee.”

“Yes, you work for my mother.  With a few well-placed insinuations, I could have you tossed out on your wide rump without so much as severance pay.”

“You could try, but you wouldn’t succeed.”  Bull turned the key on the casing and pulled it out, leaving the instrument locked up tight.  He dropped the tiny, intricate piece of metal into his inside jacket pocket before leaning down for his briefcase.  He set it on the piano case and popped it open.

“What makes you so certain?”  There was a dark challenge in Dorian’s voice.

Without answering right away, Bull extracted a few sheets of music from the case.  He spread these on the bookstand along and passed his charge a level one workbook on musical theory.  It was a child’s book, covered in happy illustrations and large lettering.  He was sure the young man would find it offensive, but that couldn’t be helped.  Bull was used to teaching children.  “Call it a gut feeling,” he stated cryptically.

Pavus grimaced at the book in his hand, but surprisingly made no comment.  “Why have you locked my piano?” he asked instead.

“I know you can play.  Every single person in this house knows you can play.  Fortunately for me and my job security, I’m not here to teach you to play.  I’m here to teach you music.  Once you’re making progress with that, I’ll allow you to play.”

“You’ll _allow_ me?”  Dorian’s cheeks went a little pink with anger.

Bull met the kid’s fierce glare with an easy smirk.  He didn’t intend to make assumptions or cause undue grief between them—particularly not this early in their acquaintance.  However, he was a firm believer in setting boundaries firm and fast.  Pavus could pitch a fit, that was expected from a whiny, spoiled noble, but he would learn whether he liked it or not.  “You hear music so clearly in your head, I want you to pick a melody.  Using my books and my lessons, your goal will be to write that melody down.  Once you’ve done that, you can have your piano back.”

Unsurprisingly, Pavus tossed the book away from himself, back at Mr. Hissrad.  It hit the floor with a sharp smack.  “Just who do you think you are that you can speak to me like some sort of child?”

“I’ll treat you the way you act toward me,” Bull said.  He kept his voice calm.  “You want to act like a spoiled brat, that’s what you’re going to get from me.  Now, pick up that book.”

“Fuck you, you bloody, great ox!”  With a disgusted noise, Pavus threw himself to his feet.  The bench screeched back several inches in the wake of his anger.  “I am an Altus, scion of House Pavus.  I have more power in my little finger than you could even dream of.  How dare you—”

“You are my student,” Bull barked.  Despite himself, he felt his tone take on the bite of the commanding officer he used to be.  “Whatever you may be outside this room, however important and superior you think you are, _I_ am charged to teach you where several others before me have failed, as I understand.  You will learn, if you are able.  If not, then you can be damn sure, you are going to try.  Now.  _Pick up that book_.”

For all his bravado and superiority, young Pavus looked as though he might actually piss himself.  It was subtle, keeping true to Tevinter tradition—never show weakness, never back down.  Just a slight tremor in his moustache, a small crumble in the surety of his stance.  He seemed to realize just how short he was, compared to Iron Bull’s eight-foot stature.  Still, his pride stayed him, kept his chin jutted and his back straight.

“Pick. It. Up.”  Bull insisted.

Silence for a moment.  Pavus was calculating again.  This time, his gaze weighed around the room.  This was the look of a man terrified for his life, picking out exits and plans of attack—whether to run or go down swinging.  Then, miraculously, he cast his gaze to the floor and knelt down at Bull’s feet to pick up the workbook.  He shoved it at Mr. Hissrad and turned to flee, slamming the door to the music room behind him.

Iron Bull smiled wide and looked at the book in his hands.  He’d had a feeling, and he was glad to be proven right.  Gently, he set the book down on the piano’s stand and closed his briefcase.  Today’s lesson had been a minor success, all in all.  They could pick up where they left off tomorrow.  For now, he just had to find a servant or someone who could help him find his way through this maze of a house.  His bedroom was apparently in the attic.


	3. Prologue - Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the long-ass prologue out of the way. And most of the people introduced. From this point on, all bets are off. I have no idea what I'm doing. Look forward to angst. And rudeness. And all together awful things.
> 
> If at any point on this ride, you get in anyway confused, let me know. This story is very much a work in progress. I may even go back and edit stuff I already posted. If I do that, I'll try to let people know, but just keep that in mind.
> 
> Anyway, love ya'll!

Attic, as it turns out, was more aptly defined as “top floor apartment.”  After dinner, Bull stumbled around the house until Estha found him and guided him up the stairs and through the halls.  The room was spacious and beautifully furnished.  There was a private attached bathroom, with plumbing and a WC.  He even had a radio.  It was honestly more than he knew what to do with, and infinitely more than he expected.  He would have been fine with a drafty room housing a cot and a water basin.  This place had a freaking balcony.  A _balcony_ off the _attic_.  That was his least favorite bit, as it looked out toward the coast, toward Seheron.  Of course there was no way for Lady Pavus to assume that would be a problem when she gave him the room.  There was also no way for Bull to explain it to her without seeming like an ingrate.  Bull drew the curtains and spent most of the night trying to ignore the drumming in his ears.

 

_Licking flames, dry, crusting ache.  His knuckles bloody, and where the fuck is his gun?  Worse than nightmares, they come at him, all sides.  Where is his platoon?  His allies?  His friends.  Nothing, no one.  Mad, angry monsters tearing at him, he is lost.  He can hear the ocean.  Time like this, as the flames lick his torso, as the claws dig into his leg, why can he hear the sea?  In that thought, he releases.  There is violence and blood and war, and he will likely die.  Solace is found through everything as he remembers that somewhere, there is the sea._

 

Nighttime was not a friend, especially in a house this close to the coast.  Needless to say, Iron Bull Hissrad had been a functioning insomniac since he left the war.  This gave him the advantage of being up and about before the sun rose, before even the servants rose.  He seized the opportunity to creep through the house and create a mental floor plan.  He stayed quiet, so as not to wake anyone, and padded down the attic stairs.

On the second floor resided the many bedrooms and guest quarters of the estate.  They all branched off from a main hall that began at the top of that beautiful staircase.  Guest rooms first, then a perpendicular corridor on which the house’s residents had rooms.  The spiral stair up to Bull’s attic lay at the left end of that T-bone, curling up beside Dorian’s room.  To the right was the master suite.  All well and good, perfectly organized.

The ground floor was altogether another story.  The foyer split off from the base of the staircase and the sunroom.  There was a corridor, off of which was the drawing room.  Bull remembered that much.  He couldn’t retrace his steps to the music room, however.  He kept finding more corridors, another washroom, another closet.  It was well past sunrise by the time he unwittingly stumbled into the kitchen.  Oh thank fuck, the kitchen.  He was starving.

Sometime in the night, the rain had let up.  Now, sunshine poured in through the narrow windows on the room’s exterior wall.  At the stove stood a massive human, almost as tall as Iron Bull and proportionally as thick.  He had a dark, Tevinter tan, and large hands, with which he was chopping onions under a large knife—or perhaps dagger was more appropriate.  Everything about the man was huge, from the blade in his hand, to his round belly, to the apron wrapped around it.  Even his smile was big.  He let out a boisterous chortle as Iron Bull entered.  Beside his cutting board, perched on the counter, was a slim, bright-eyed Elvish girl.

This girl was the polar opposite to her company.  Where the cook was wide and sloppy—stained sleeves and unkempt beard—she was crystalline, pale and pretty.  Her red hair was braided into a thick fishtail, long enough to wrap around the base of her skull in a large bun all bundled up in a thick-weaved snood.  _Red head…_ Bull thought dismally, _I’m in trouble._   He’d always had a soft-spot for gingers.  She looked over at him with her clever grin and smacked the cook on the shoulder to shut him up.

“Morning,” Iron Bull said, lamely.

The cook stuck his knife into the board—so hard it sank an inch and a half into the wood—and wiped his hands on his apron as he turned.  “Well, you must be Master Dorian’s new keeper,” he said, thick accent of the low-class Soporati.

A flash of movement as the girl smacked him on the shoulder again.  “Brandt,” she chided.

“Right, right.  Sorry, Velena,” Brandt back peddled.  “Master Dorian’s new _Qunari_ keeper, Maker’s Balls.  How do you get through doors with those things on your head?”

Velena put her head in her hand and sighed.  She was smiling, however, the fond sort of grimace she might use if a dear friend embarrassed her in public.  “ _Brandt_ , you can’t just ask a Qunari how he keeps his horns.  It’s very bad form.  This is why the lady keeps you in the kitchen when we have guests.”

With a grin, Bull stepped over to the island counter.  “Doors aren’t usually the problem,” he offered, despite her protest.  “Shirts, though.  If it doesn’t have buttons, I perfer to go without.”

Brandt laughed, just a little too hard.  Obviously he was a man for whom jokes were many and happiness was easy.  Bull liked him instantly.  Beside him, Velena’s ears went a little pink, but she giggled right along.  Introductions went smoothly after that.  They chatted pleasantly over delicious cups of coffee flavored with chocolate crème.  Bull had always had a magnetic personality.  He liked to make people smile when he conversed, liked to see them happy.  This pair were particularly susceptible to his charm.  Apparently, Velena had already been there an hour telling the latest jokes she’d heard the night before on a radio program she preferred.  They were warm and kind.

By the time Velena had to get on with her chores, Brandt was red in the face, teary-eyed from laughing and the heat from his stew.  He waved them both out of his kitchen so he might “actually be able to get breakfast on.”  Flirting shamelessly, Bull offered to aid Velena with carrying the laundry out to the garden, if she helped him find his way through the ground floor.

“I know precisely what you mean, Mr. Hissrad,” she commented, dragging linens from the basket and draping them over the line.  She had to stand on a stool to reach properly.  Bull just plucked up a sheet and spread it over with ease.  “I’ve lived here all my life and I still lose my way at night, in the dark.  Mother says that’s from absent-mindedness, though, not the house.”

“Mother?” Bull inquired.

“My mother.  You met her last night.  Believe me, she wouldn’t shut up about the _handsome_ Qunari caller come stumbling in out of the rain.”

Iron Bull almost fell over into the laundry basket as he bent over, the recognition kicked him in the ass.  “Estha’s you’re mother?”  He straightened like she’d caught him out stealing sweets.

Bull prided himself on his observation.  In fact, he made a living out of it in Seheron.  He didn’t miss things, especially not inconsequential shit like this.  Was he losing his edge?  He looked the young Elf up and down a couple times, trying to figure it out.  He pictured Estha and tried to fit the two together.  The red hair matched, though Estha’s was gray now.  Without knowing the father, Bull couldn’t know for sure, but Velena’s face was all wrong.

Velena beamed up at him from her stool.  “I was born in this garden, if you believe it,” she said, “right under that tree over there.  Mother tells that story to everyone, so I guess I’ll beat her to the punch.  It was raining, and the middle of the night, and I just really wanted to come into the world, apparently.  Mother’s got this Dalish thing about trees, though, and that’s the oldest tree in the garden.  So it’s time, and she’s in the house because Lady Pavus—also pregnant—is about to push out Master Dorian, and there’s this moment of chaos when Leonard and Magister Pavus—Leonard’s the gardener, you’ll meet him soon.  Leonard and Magister Pavus decide they can’t wait for the doctor and Mother tells them she has to have me under the tree.  Lady Pavus is wailing through her contractions and shouting at everyone to figure it out already.  Long story short, Brandt is the one who decides they may as well all go if Mother’s going to be so insistent.  He hauls up Lady Pavus, Mother walks on her own and Dorian and I are born ten minutes apart under the pear tree.”  She starts to laugh.  “Leonard likes to say that Magister Halward stood and watched, all balled up and looking like a drowned dog, not knowing which way was up.  And when the babes finally got born, he just shrugged and said ‘well, that was unnecessary.’  Then he turned tail and walked right back up to the house.  What a flat tire.”

Bull couldn’t help but laugh.  Velena was busting up, and her good-natured chortling was utterly contagious.  “You were born the same day as Dorian?”

“Aye,” Velena chuckled.  She took deep breaths to get a hold of herself.  Apparently Magister Pavus was a truly hilarious man.  As she calmed, she went back to pinning unmentionables to the line.  “Mother was his wet nurse, we grew up together.  For a long time, I used to think he was my brother.”

"That must have been an interesting childhood.”

For a moment, Velena paused.  She had her hands on her hips and her bottom lip thrust forward in a thoughtful pout.  Her gaze was critical on Iron Bull, for the first time, but he got the feeling she wasn’t sizing him up.  “He…he’s a bit different now,” she admitted at length.  “And, you know, things are different.  He’s got his studies and…all that noble…crap.”

Bull raised an eyebrow.  “Oh…” he said, “That’s a pretty big torch you’re carrying.”

“Shut it, Ox-man,” Velena snapped, but she was pouting too hard to be insulting.

Chuckling turned to laughter which turned to Velena blushing and chasing him around brandishing an empty basket, shouting, “You keep your mouth shut, you hear me?”  The more they ran around, the more Bull laughed and Velena finally gave up.  She snatched up the baskets with her nose in the air and stomped back toward the house.

“Good luck finding the music room, Mister Hissrad,” she huffed.

Bull watched her go, comfortable in the understanding that she wasn’t truly angry with him.  She smiled over her shoulder before disappearing through the side door.  Bull decided that, while the house was too big and confusing and the nobles were dramatic and whiny, he could very easily like it here.  The people he worked with were nice, after all.  And Velena…  That was a puzzle he wanted to solve.  Plus, he was a sucker for redheads.

Now, he just had to find his way to the music room. 

* * *

 

Leonard, as it happened, was a grouchy, ancient man who had probably built the house himself, for all that he knew about it.  He was the groundsman, but he navigated Bull through the elusive ground floor without batting an eye.  He didn’t seem to think too highly of Bull, and he kept sending suspicious glances over his shoulder.  It wasn’t surprising.  Leonard was Tevinter, and old enough to harbor some pretty archaic prejudices.  Not to say that racism was completely rooted out of Tevinter society these days, but this was a modern age.  Modern enough that a ‘Vint noble didn’t bat an eye at the prospect of hiring a Qunari Seheron vet for the care of her son.  Much to Leonard’s chagrin, apparently.

Iron Bull tried his best not to let it bother him.  Not everyone could be as good-natured as Brandt or Estha.  He couldn’t win everyone’s favor.

“You want the kitchen or the dining room, you head east, looking for the wine room, you head west,” Leonard informed, grumpily.  His tone was low, dismal and gravelly, much like his personality.  “Sitting rooms are on the north side of the house, washrooms and closets on the south.  You ever get lost, just find a window and find the sun.  Y’hear?”

“Yes sir,” Bull said, which seemed to please Leonard a little.

The grumpy, old man harrumphed his approval before pointing out the dining room.  Bull was grateful enough for the tour that he didn’t even mind Leonard’s parting comments about hiding silverware.  He made a note of the dining room for when it was time for breakfast but turned around to find the music room.  Apparently it sat beside the wine room.  That was a thing that completely floored Bull.  Fucking Tevinter.  How rich do you have to be to have an entire room dedicated to the storage of wine?  Then again, how much of an alcoholic do you have to be?

Knowing the compass helped Bull get to his destination without a hitch.  He pulled the door open, it swung on perfectly oiled hinges.  That was a going theme in this house.  The lack of sound kept the room’s occupant unaware of Bull’s entry.  Raising an eyebrow, Bull leaned back against the door frame and watched as Dorian Pavus sat on the piano bench, fiddling with the lock.  The instrument rested in the center of the room and put the player’s back to the door.  Frankly, Bull could stand there watching for an hour.  He genuinely considered it, just to see how long it took the kid to get the cover open.  However, he had a day to get on with.

“Really?” he said, at length.

“Fuck!”  Dorian jumped to his feet and spun around, knocking the bench with his knees.  “Andraste’s tits, how do you get around so quietly, you great beast?”  He was wearing sleep clothes, but his hair was meticulously styled, as was his moustache.  Bull got the feeling that if he walked into a formal party in his sleep pants and vest shirt, he would still be the best dressed person in the room.

Bull managed a small smile, without just blatantly laughing.  He got the vibe that Young Pavus didn’t care to be laughed at.  There was too much pride there—the kind of pride that made one stop and primp even before sneaking down to pick locks at half-seven in the morning.  The kind of pride that went hand in hand with deep-seated self-esteem issues.  Then there was the way he kept looking at Bull, from chest to face to horns and back again.  Like it was still sinking in that he had a Qunari in his house.  Bull was used to that sort of thing, initially.  He taught children for years, and there was always a little bit of tension from parents.  Once he’d proven himself as a capable instructor, and that he didn’t plan on running off with the china, or eating the child alive, things got better.  Dorian looked like he might get eaten alive.  Bull wondered how to prove him wrong.

“Did you think I wouldn't try?” Pavus snapped.

This time, Bull did laugh. “I would have been offended if you didn't,” he stated. Which was true. He was reassured to know that Dorian was passionate enough about music to try something underhanded to get to it. It meant the kid would at least take shit seriously at some point.

“Well then…” Pavus straightened, regarding Bull with a curious expression. “…I’m pleased to meet your expectations.”

“Oh you definitely meet them,” Bull teased, without thinking. He'd gotten too comfortable with Velena's playful banter. Now, he had to mentally kick himself. He still wasn't sure how Dorian expected him to interact, or how he might react to teasing. Velena had been easy, she flirted right back, whereas Dorian was a stuffy noble and might take him seriously and get offended. “Sorry, I—”

Surprise surprise, Dorian laughed. It was a little stilted and just a hint shocked, but it was also unmistakably genuine. Almost like he expected it even less. His body lost some tension, and he propped one hand on his hip. “Don’t apologize, Mr. Hissrad. I know I'm pretty.”

Eyebrow raised, Bull watched the young man hesitate, remember himself, and pull his mask back on. He flashed a winning smile, but it was significantly colder than just a few moments ago.

For just a moment, he had felt comfortable. The change was so drastic and immediate, Bull wondered if he'd imagined the laugh.

“Do you plan to join Mother and myself for breakfast?” The kid’s tone was congenial, but empty.

And so, the plot that was Dorian Pavus thickened.


	4. Daddy's Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magister Halward Pavus makes his appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter for you lot. So this story is actually about Dorian and his father, I think. And the moments leading up to the eventual collapse of their relationship. Hope that remains clear in coming chapters. Also, Bull is going to care really hard forever.
> 
> Note on vocabulary, "da'len" is a Dalish term for "little child" or "little one." And "maela," I believe is another Elvish word for "nanny" or "nana." It just made sense Dorian would have called her that in his childhood, I don't know. I'll fix it if it doesn't work.
> 
> Also, every time I spell "Elvish" I wan to write "Elvis" and I get "Teddy Bear" stuck in my head. O.o

Magister Halward Pavus was the sort of man who turned every head when he entered a room. He was an aging sort of handsome and his every movement exuded careful, calculated power. His face was stern, eyes sharp and quick, and he held himself with an intimidating straightness the made Iron Bull's neck ache just to look at. As the Magister and his procession flooded into the foyer, the dour room grew somehow colder, darker. Despite the warm, spring afternoon glistening in through the Orlesian stacked windows, Bull felt a rush of cold brush past him as Magister Pavus glanced around the room. Even being a seasoned veteran, Iron Bull Hissrad would think twice before coming to blows with the likes of this man.

"Halward," said Aquinea, seeming completely unaffected by her husband's black aura. She swooped forward and pressed a quick kiss to Lord Pavus' cheek. He didn't so much as twitch.

As per Tevinter custom, the entire household had gathered in the foyer to welcome the household's head from his long journey. Even young Dorian stood among the throng, stiff as a board, but otherwise completely devoid of emotion. Yet, Lord Pavus looked straight past everyone else in the room. His gaze locked on Bull, and he raised one dark, perfectly trimmed eyebrow. Bull could see where the young Master Pavus got his meticulous penchant for hygiene and appearance.

"Aquinea, dear wife," Lord Pavus greeted her, voice low and thick with a Vyrantium accent. "Forgive my lack of ceremony, but would you mind telling me why there is an eight-foot Qunari man standing in the hall?"

"This is Dorian's new music tutor, my lord," she intoned with care. "Remember?"

Halward's lips twitched into a strained smile. "Ah yes," he said, "that's right. Mr. Hissrad, was it? A pleasure. My sincerest apologies for not being here when you arrived. Business beckons, as it were."

"Of course, Sir," Bull said congenially. However, when he smiled, he made an extra effort to show every tooth possible. Just to test a theory.

Lord Pavus actually hesitated in raising his hand to shake. He eyed Bull warily, but said nothing of the insult. After a small beat in which the tension around them thickened to syrup, Halward smiled, wide and fake and nodded. He didn't shake hands with Bull, which was fine as the Qunari didn't want him to.

Presently, the lord of the house started up a stream of warm greetings for everyone currently in the hall. He was especially warm with his wife and the elder servants. Somehow it looked like a performance; even here, in the comfort of his own home, the oldest Pavus felt the need to act. However, the warmth fled him when he regarded his son.

The youngest Pavus stiffened, impossibly and near imperceptibly straighter, under his father's calculating glower. He said nothing, made no attempt to move. The young man looked like a terrified rabbit cornered by a wolf, hoping against hope that if he stood still long enough, the predator would lose interest and leave him be. The sight of it made Iron Bull's gut tighten, empathetic nerves.

"Dorian," Lord Pavus said, name dripping from his tongue, oily, as though it left a bad taste in the man's mouth.

"Father," replied the young master. His voice betrayed none of the anxiety that was apparent in his features. "Welcome home, my lord."

Lord Pavus gave no reply. He took his wife's arm and turned instead to Bull. "I hope you will join me in the drawing room after dinner, Mr. Hissrad," he said, "allow me the opportunity to properly welcome you to my house."

"As you wish, Magister," Bull replied, though his throat felt thick with distaste. As far as first impressions went, Bull was sure no one landed them like Halward Pavus. With a couple gestures and the tone of his voice, he made it clear from the start that he thought himself superior to Bull in every way. There was a little prejudice in it too, but Bull had to appreciate the clarity. There were no illusions.

"Before that, however," the Magister continued, not missing a beat, "I have something of an announcement to make. Dorian this pertains to - Where is my son?"

Bull looked, as did every set of eyes in the room. Dorian was gone, without a word or a sound. It made Bull think of the fog warriors of Seheron, the silent kill in that damnable, chemical haze. He shivered despite himself. Gathering his attention out of the past, he noticed Dorian's was not the only body absent from the hall.

* * *

 

Bull fully intended going on a house-wide search for the missing people. In fact, he was more than a little offended that Lord Pavus didn't seem to give two shits where his son lit off to. Dorian and Estha had taken off at the same time, probably to the same destination. The soldier in Bull calculated possible routes in the time realized. However, the more he thought about it the more he realized there few places in this house that the young Pavus frequented.

He chose the music room first. Even with the keys locked up, Dorian was pleased to lounge on the bench. Whether he found comfort in the proximity of the instrument, or he was trying to devise a way past the lock, Bull didn't know. Probably some mixture of both.

"Dorian... _da'len_..."

Bull came to a stop by the door, listening. That was Estha's voice. She was speaking softly to her employer's son. There you go, critical thinking gets two birds with one stone.

"Don't!" That was Dorian, petulant and haughty as always. "Please, Estha. Don't address me as some sniveling child."

"Well, excuse me, _Sir_."

Dorian let out a sigh loud enough to carry through the door and into the hall. He sounded exhausted. That was so rare in and of itself that Bull felt uncomfortable eavesdropping. Master Pavus carried himself with care, a perfectly crafted mask, honed over so many years of hiding. That façade remained firmly in place around most of the house's occupants - Bull included. Estha must have been dear to him if he let it slip so easily, just for her.

"No, don't - don't call me that either."

Bull turned the handle gently, pulling the door on silent hinges. Dorian sat on the piano bench, leaning heavily on the locked case. The elf stood directly behind him, so that both of them faced away from the door. Perhaps for obvious reasons, the music room was one of Bull’s favorites in the house.  Aside from the piano and bench, the room’s adornments included several other instruments of varying sizes—a clarinet, a trumpet, a violin, and a beautiful guitar among them.  Early on, Bull had set up a work desk.  He’d found it in a pile of furniture in the farthest corner of the room.  This place might have been used as storage at some point.

However, the item of the most interest to Iron Bull spread out and over up the walls.  He couldn’t be sure who decided to plaster the walls with lines and lines of sheet music.  It wasn’t even particularly well done.  The pages were pasted together and pressed over too much adhesive.  The whole mess looked a bit like someone became incredibly inebriated and started sticking shit to the walls for the hell of it.  Bull just enjoyed the fact that it was the libretto of an unfinished opera.  One day, he might attempt some of the masterful melody that trailed over the walls.

As he entered, Estha kept speaking.  "My dear Dorian," she said. "I raised you from diapers, I spanked your bum and treated your scraped knees. All your life I have watched you trip and fall and pick yourself back up again. I will endeavor to be so bold and tell you to hang what your father thinks."

"I would pay your salary for the rest of my natural life to see you say that to his face," Dorian snapped, without much heat.

"You are as strong-willed and stubborn as he is," Estha chided.

Abruptly, the young man let out a quiet, cracking sound, like a cross between a laugh and a cry of unadulterated agony. Estha surged forward and placed her hand on his shoulder. " _Maela_ , he hardly looked at me," Dorian muttered, voice tight.

That was quite enough. This moment was between the two of them, obviously something Iron Bull had no business hearing. He felt like he’d walked in on one of them bathing. Clearing his throat, Bull stepped further into the room. At the very least, he wasn't made the target of any fireballs this time. He did note the anxiety in Dorian's shoulders. Awkward tension filled the free space. The mage didn't turn around, but Estha gave a warm smile.

"Mr. Iron Bull," she said, no lack of warmth to her wizened tone.

"Ma'am," Bull replied, cheekily. That had become something of a private joke between them.

Estha fixed him with a pointed glare, rendered useless by her residual smile. Bull believed in world peace and it lay within Estha's brilliant grin. "Well, I'll leave the both of you to it," she said, "good day, young sir, Iron Bull."

The moment he spun around on the bench, Dorian had his walls back up. His lips curled into a muted smirk, the kind that never reached his eyes. "Yes, goodbye, dear Estha," he announced. He could have been addressing a rioting crowd. "Don't work those old bones too hard."

Bull held the door for her, watching the lovely flourish with which she slipped out of the room. Every movement completely efficient, even as she glanced to Bull and shook her head sadly. She cared so much, incredibly much for a member of the serving class. One might think this was her household and Young Pavus her unruly son. She did handle him with more care and discipline than either of his parents bothered with, but Bull wouldn't know about parents. He'd never had them.

"Sir?" Bull inquired as he pulled the door closed.

"Kindly fuck off, Mr. Hissrad," the man shot back.

So much for those walls and that mask. He was slipping. Bull turned to face him, but Dorian had his gaze thrust to the ground. Bull whistled softly, a long, lingering note. "Shit, not sure what I did to deserve that, exactly."

"Nothing," replied the mage, voice considerably softer this time. He was performing more for small theater now. "That was unworthy. Please forgive me."

Bull's expression softened somewhat. He'd lived here a couple months now. In that time he'd started to forget just how young Dorian was. Barely twenty, he was a man by all accounts - except for his parents' apparently. Outside of his mother’s presence, Dorian could be downright cordial and mature. However, his life experience was limited to Circles and the confines of this estate. He dedicated himself to his studies and his staff work. Bull had yet to see him travel beyond the garden. Perhaps that fact should have been more disconcerting before this moment.

"It's alright," he assured the other man.

The silence between them thickened, latent and heavy with words that could be said, a conversation that wasn't had. Both men stared pointedly away; Bull in an attempt to find a way to purvey the message weighing down his tongue, Dorian mostly out of shame. In his mind, no doubt, he'd acted abominably in the foyer and just now. This time, his self-flagellation was tangible. Bull could see it without looking.  He wondered how so much in the young man could change with the arrival of just one, admittedly quite intimidating, person.

"My father," Dorian said, breaking the silence first. "He had an announcement. Unfortunately, I had quite the dizzy spell earlier, I had to sit down. I missed Halward's important news."

Dizzy spell. Sure, Bull could get on board with that. So long as it was acknowledged, it was the sort of dizzy spell that didn't drive one to sit. Dorian's spell brought him quite a distance into the house - looking for a safe place as opposed to a chair. The music room had been Dorian's sanctuary, his church. He prostrated himself across the keys, tithed to a god of musical release. Bull had caught a glimpse of it his first day. Until this moment, he hadn't sympathized against his decision to lock up the keys. Dorian could be a conniving little shit when he had a mind. Every attempt to undermine him only strengthened Bull's resolve. Today, however...

Today, Dorian's fingertips tapped absently on the casing. Bull thought he caught a spark dancing in between the tapping. It was unnerving to see the young mage so out of sorts - even if Dorian would look perfectly content to the inattentive audience.

"First tell me how your homework is going," Bull pressed, smiling softly.

Dorian rolled his eyes, but otherwise remained unaffected by the taunt. "It would be considerably less challenging if you unlocked the damn piano and let me see the keys."

"You have them memorized."

"My _hands_ have them memorized. My brain wouldn't know middle 'c' from a sharp stick in the eye." Dorian turned fully on the bench, slouching back against the keyboard with his knees apart and his arms propped on the casing, stretched out to his sides. "My hands know the sounds, how to press, where to give force and where to relent. My fingers know where to move to get the sound that I desire. Yet, you would have me do _mathematics_."

With a frustrated growl, Dorian sprung to his feet and paced to the other side of the room. "Half steps, whole notes, majors and minors! You know what, Mr. Hissrad. Hang your bloody lesson for today. I'll be of no use at all for any of this learning business."

The Iron Bull stared for a moment. For once, this sort of rant didn't sound like the selfish bitching of a spoiled brat. Dorian was less pissy than he was animated and passionate. And Mr. Hissrad, for all that he was a professional teacher and an impeccable employee, found himself undeniably attracted. Except that he could deny it - he _would_ deny it - and he would happily keep his job.

"What would you want to do instead?" Bull asked.

Lips pursed thoughtfully, Dorian crossed arms over his chest and tapped his foot. The stance was firm and serious - more so than necessary for the discussion of afternoon plans. It was, frankly, adorable and disconcerting that Bull could barely take his eyes off the man's pouting lips. _Reign it in, Mr. Hissrad,_ he scolded himself.

"There is a chess set under the gazebo in the garden," Master Pavus reported, ultimately. "Do you play?"

"I have dabbled," replied Bull, with a grin.

Dorian was apparently pleased to hear that. His smile spread, slow and wide and wicked, across his face.  “Is that so?” he inquired, voice deceptively soft.

“You think you’d beat me,” Bull teased.

“Correction, I’d kick your wide arse, Mr. Hissrad.”

And that, in all the wrong ways, sounded completely beautiful.  The look on Dorian’s face, confident, finally able to take comfort behind his mask, made something twist inside Bull’s gut.  There was something different, now that Halward had returned.  Dorian stood by the piano and tried his damnedest to seem unaffected.

"May I suggest something else?”  Bull inquired, carefully watching his student’s face.

Curious, though not overtly offended, Pavus nodded.

“I have a few errands to run this afternoon, just in the city.  A parcel to send out, some little purchases to make.  I was going to try to get everything done before dark and finish off the evening at a pub Brandt told me about.  Apparently it’s the only place in Qarinus one can find any brew of any culture.  Even Qunari.”

“Oh,” the young lord breathed.  His was the expression of a man preparing for rejection.

Before Dorian could jump to conclusions, Bull went on.  “Would you like to come with me?  Get you out of this house for a little while.  Might help you relax a bit.”

“Who says I need to relax?”  Though his words were defensive, there was no heat in Dorian’s voice.  Absently, he stroked his moustache—as though to consider this offer.  He wasn’t transparent.  If Bull didn’t know how to read people, he would have missed how the tiny movements worked in tandem to let the young man recover from his misconception.  “Besides, Mother would hardly allow it.  Not to mention now that Father’s home…  I appreciate the offer, however.”

Rolling his eye, Bull allowed himself a fond smile.  “I’ll talk to Lady Pavus,” he stated, then winked.  “I have a way with women.”

“Please don’t ever say that again with regards to my mother—”

“I’m sure she’ll let you go out tonight, it’s about time you got some air, if you don’t mind my saying so.”  Bull’s grin faltered just a bit, however, as a thought occurred to him.  “That is, _if_ you want to come.”

Master Pavus was a blank slate, eyes locked on something behind Bull’s head.  For several moments, he seemed to be in deep concentration.  Considering every outcome, every possible consequence of spending time with his tutor.  Or perhaps, just coming to grips with the fact that he hadn’t truly been outside in months.  Did he even want to venture out of the estate?  Bull wondered suddenly if the man’s reclusiveness wasn’t self-imposed.

Abruptly, Dorian smiled.  “Alright,” he agreed, only slightly strained with uncertainty.  “However, Leonard will drive us.  None of that public transit, nonsense.  The day I set foot on a trolley may actually be the day I die.”

“Sure thing, your Highness,” Bull stated, cheekily.

“Fuck you,” Dorian snapped.  Though he was still smiling, which meant something important, Bull was sure.


End file.
